


To Binge

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, M/M, Red Team Week, Reflection, Set just after s15 e6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Back in Hawaii those rich tourists would have loved to spend their money on a place like this. Big piece of land. No neighbors in sight. Private beach.The water was pleasantly warm and there were umbrellas lined up by the shore.  Just lie down and enjoy the peace and quiet. No one and nothing could disturb you. The ideal way to retire, really. No wonder people would empty their bank accounts if they could spend the rest of their days like this.And Grif had gotten it all for free.It had cost himnothing.





	To Binge

Back in Hawaii those rich tourists would have loved to spend their money on a place like this. Big piece of land. No neighbors in sight. Private beach.

The water was pleasantly warm and there were umbrellas lined up by the shore.  Just lie down and enjoy the peace and quiet. No one and nothing could disturb you. The ideal way to retire, really. No wonder people would empty their bank accounts if they could spend the rest of their days like this.

And Grif had gotten it all for free.

It had cost him _nothing_.

Grif had taken off his armor, leaving him in shorts and a worn t-shirt, and he could bury his toes into the sand. That was a rare pleasure since Simmons always complained when the armor was no longer there to apparently shield the cyborg from his smell. In the end Grif had decided to wear his armor at all times: only to set an example for Donut because, damnit, the idiot had to learn _not_ to take off armor and underwear and all layers of fabric in-between.

Not that it was his problem now. Donut could go naked as much as he cared for Grif’s sake. He’d be on the ship, floating through space, and the others would be stuck with him and Jax would be there with his stupid camera to capture all of Donut’s glory. Grif was free from dealing with such scenes now.

Back in Hawaii Grif had never had a house with a private beach. However, there had always been a beach, never too far away, even when they had been following the circus around blindly, or when they finally moved into that tiny apartment that for some reason still had the familiar but unwanted smell of sawdust.

But whenever they had the time, or whenever they just simply needed to get away from the everyday chaos, he would grab Kai’s tiny hand and drag her to the beach. Years later she would be the one pulling him down to the waves, Grif dragging heavy feet through the sand and Kai doing cartwheels.

When she was smaller Kai would do a big show out of running after the waves when they withdrew. Grif would have planted his behind firmly planted in the sand, and in the end he would clasp his arms around Kai’s torso and force her to sit down next to him.

“Waste of effort,” he had explained, and a moment after the waves would fall again, reaching up tickle their toes and Kai had screamed in delight.

No point chasing what was bound to come back eventually. Sit still and it would return.

It had been much safer that way, with Kai next to him instead of running out with water at chest-level because she was only four but could attract disasters like a personal skill. Much more comfortable as well, and he was able to close his eyes and relax instead of running around like a maniac.

The water back in Hawaii had been better, of course, a bit warmer and with a more pleasant salty taste to it.

Grif grunted when the water splashed against his shorts, and he let out a string of curses when the wat wet fabric stuck to his skin. He was not in the mood. The water may be warm but the wind was quick to cool him down and blow his hair in his face.

Simmons had complained about it getting too long, and Grif had flipped him off, and now Grif just tucked it behind his ear before getting up. Sand stuck to his shins and the underside of his feet, but Grif never bothered to brush it off. It felt too satisfying to leave a trail of sand inside the base as he walked straight towards the refrigerator.

If the nerd had been here he would have yelled about sloppiness and the importance of keeping the base clean, and he would have begun the impossible task of finding every little corn of sand and remove it. Waste of effort, waste of time.

Grif stomped a foot to leave behind a nice pile of sand on the floor. It would have been great to send a picture of the mess to Simmons, to cause the nerd to have an OCD-meltdown in the middle of the ship. But then again: Grif had quit it all, and he was currently busy with passive bitterness which was the best kind because it required so little of him. Sending Simmons a picture might please the nerd, maybe he would see it as a sign of life and be happy with that.

Grif did not want him to be happy, not really. Maybe it was the selfish side of him (because he was obviously selfish, Tucker had been so kind to point that out. Fuck Tucker and fuck the Blues, and next time Blue Team Problems happened, which was bound to happen soon, Grif would not be there; not like the time he had volunteered to watch Caboose’ ass, or the time they had all run after Church even after all his insults, or all the other times he and the other Reds had joined the Blues on yet another stupid adventure. Oh how selfish Grif was) that wanted Simmons to hurt inside, feel guilty at least. He wanted to the nerd to wring his hands and swallow nervously whenever he thought of what had happened.

He tore the fridge open with an angry motion; the bottles shook afterwards.

“I’m just gonna take this!” Grif yelled to no one because he was all alone and it was _awesome_. “And this! Hope you weren’t planning for a movie night. _Reservoir Dogs_ sucks!” he added because he could.

He dropped down in the couch, heard it creak and there was no one to make a joke about it, with his arms full of snackbars and a half-eaten sandwich. For a moment he wondered how many rations he had left, wondered if the others had realized they had left him behind with a dwindling amount of food.

But whatever. The mushrooms did not taste too bad, though they did leave a headache when the rush disappeared. Maybe he could cook them up or something. Grif had cooked before, made dinner for Kai too many times to count, and he could cook paste and meat sauce like a pro. Simmons always burned it in some way. Then he would try with some of his oh-so-fancy salads which was clearly cheating since it was impossible to burn raw vegetables.

Grif munched on a snackbar, pretending it still has some taste left, but at least it had chocolate covering it, and chocolate healed all wounds. Not that Grif was hurting or anything; he was great, he was retired, and it was everything he ever wanted.

It was Simmons who should be hurting, and Grif knew he was because nothing could wreck the nerd more than rejection. Simmons craved acceptance, that everyone liked him. Maybe it was weird that he and Grif had hung out, since they obviously hated each other. Obviously.

But after years of being the butt of the joke, years of insults and mockery, it was so selfish for Grif to want him to feel guilt. But it was not really what Simmons had done but more what he had not done. The stuff he had not said, had not asked, not even when Grif slammed the truth in the face.

But silence was golden, even back then and even now when Grif was sprawled out on the couch with a snack in his hand, and there was no one to disturb his chill, no explosions in the background or Caboose yelling about kitties or idiotic Spanish phrases. Silence was golden – no silence was fucking _orange_ and awesome and perfect.

“Fucking great,” Grif said loudly, making sure to chew with open mouth so pieces of chocolate could fly out and stain the couch. Simmons would have had a heart-attack. Fuck Simmons.

But the snackbar had begun to taste like sawdust, and there had been a bad relationship between him and sawdust ever since the circus.

He threw it on the floor, pushed the empty packages off himself. He looked down, pleased with the amount of trash he left behind, and marched into their –wait, no, _his_ bedroom with the half-eaten sandwich in his hand. Just in case. He was not hungry now, which was an unsettling fact. The hollow feeling inside his stomach was still there but food did not seem to help. Utter bullshit. He’d have to try with the mushrooms later. If anything they would help the time go faster until his hunger would return.

Their real beds had burned in the fire – because fucking D _onut_ – so all they had left were some mattresses and then Grif had stolen all the extra blankets because he’d be damned if he was denied all comfort just because Donut could not control his lube.

Grif and Simmons had shared room because no one really expected anything else. Simmons had been sure that there was a certain distance between their mattresses. He had been jumpy since – well, he had always been jumpy but things had been worse since the Temple… Simmons preferred to refer to it was the Temple _Incident_ the few times they had actually spoken of it.

He could not recall a time where Simmons had been redder in the face. Too bad. It had been a good look on him.

The Base was cold and Grif considered stealing Simmons’ blanket but that would require moving. And he did not feel like getting up. Like, _ever_. And now Simmons was no longer there to yell at him in the morning and Sarge was no longer there to threaten him with his shotgun and  Donut was no longer there to sing his stupid _good morning_ -song. Grif could sleep as long as his liked. Besides, it was only fun to steal Simmons’ blanket when the nerd would be there to sputter about it.

Selfish Grif wanting two blankets. Well, selfish Grif got an entire moon for himself. So suck it.

He kept the sandwich in his hand, even while rolling over to stare at the wall.

To be honest it was not the cold that bothered him. This place was never even actually cold; it had to be his wet clothes or something giving him the annoying goosebumps.

It was the silence that was creeping up on him because, fuck it, no place should ever be this quiet. But their stereo had burned in the fire, of course, along with almost anything else. Even the instruments that had survived could not help him; he did not feel like playing. He just wanted to sleep.

“Fuck them,” Grif said to break the silence, and it felt more than just good. It felt great. Awesome.

Sarge had probably marked the day. D-day with _D_ for _Dirtbag_. They were probably planning the anniversary already. Grif could see it happening. They would probably stuff a big doll – Caboose would love it, he was all about literally making friends with whatever material he had at hand.

Donut would offer to sew the orange outfit, happy to play designer for a while. Tucker would probably punch it, show off some stupid move Wash had taught him during all those times the two of them had snuck away together for _private sessions_. Yeah.

Simmons would snort and say the doll was no way near fat enough to pass as Grif. Sarge would shoot it with his shotgun before burning it.

Grif hoped they would at least have a buffet or something. Any celebration with his name involved should have food. He’d even written a note about it, back in Chorus, where death was something you had been forced to think about. In case any of the others got stuck with the duty of planning his funeral they should know he demanded a buffet for the entire population of Chorus. The ones that weren’t evil assholes. That was how he should be remembered.

That was the good thing about retirement. You did not have to think about stupid stuff like that. No one cared about dying or killing or your stupid-ass teammates dying. There were no unwanted adrenalin rushes, no worries or gnawing fears. Everything was _chill_ , like it should be.

Grif became aware that he was clutching the sandwich against his chest, staining his shirt. Not that he cared. But, well… it was not even that good a sandwich.

It made sense, how all of this had turned out. Grif wanted – _deserved_ retirement. All the things he loved, right here. If the others wanted to abandon him to go hunt a fucking ghost of a comrade – fine. He had not expected them to stay.

Because the others hated him. Grif reminded himself of all the times the others had mocked him, insulted him, ignored him and downright stated the fact – they hated him. And that was fine. Good. It all made sense.

The others hated him. And so Grif hated the others.

And when the others hated him then it made sense that he stayed. It made it logical. Made it right.

The place was quiet, and somehow that was the worst part of it all. Noise, as annoying as it could be, could at least be blocked by covering your ears. Silence required something from you. And Grif did not want to talk out loud as a maniac. As far as he was concerned, he was the only sane person around here. The only one sane enough to call bullshit.

Grif grunted and decided he would no longer think of the others and when or if they returned. He wanted to sleep.

Sleep was pure pleasure. When you slept it did not matter what the time was or how many hours or days had passed. Did not matter how quiet your Base was. Did not matter that you were alone on a moon. Did not matter if your so-called friends had taken both ships and left without even asking him… Or how Simmons…

Sleep was like flipping off the world.

Grif loved that solution. Now, if he could only nod off and slip away from this boring reality.

It was just… No place should be _this_ quiet.

Grif inhaled and tried his best not to think of the last time he had been the only living person stuck on a lonesome planet.

He opened his mouth to sing. He wanted to prove he was a better singer than Carolina (okay, everyone was a better singer than Carolina) but the lump in his throat prevented him from beginning any of the lullabies he had used on Kai when they had both been children.

So he used the unofficial night-time song of the Red Team to break the silence.

“I just wish that Grif was dead,” he sang loudly and let go off the sandwich to flip off the ceiling with both hands. “Put a bullet through his head.”

And maybe the saddest thing of it all was how Grif for once would not mind Simmons singing along.

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is inspired and shares name with the song “To Binge” by my favorite band Gorillaz. One of the band members describes the song as:
> 
> “A Hawaiian version of melancholy, yeah? You don’t see a lot of miserable Hawaiians, do you? It’s not known for its grim outlook on life."
> 
> It was just perfect for this story.
> 
> So this is basically all the angsty thoughts I’ve had about Grif alone poured into a one-shot. It’s almost 2am but I wanted to do something for Grif day.
> 
> It turned out angstier than I intended but I guess I am just practicing for Angst week which begins tomorrow (technically today for me).
> 
> I miss my orange boy and I hope we get to see him soon.


End file.
